


Not Dead

by thepeskyunicorn



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Crack, M/M, Trope Subversion, james bond can't die because of ridiculous reasons, q is doing ??? out loud
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 18:07:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7449103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepeskyunicorn/pseuds/thepeskyunicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're not alive," Q whispers. "You can't be alive. It's not possible."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Dead

"You're not alive," Q whispers, heart on his tongue, shock burning his throat, and the contents of his stomach trying to make a bid for freedom. "You can't be -" He clears his throat, tightening the grip on his mug as the tea threatens to slosh over the brim in his trembling hands. "You can't be alive. It's not possible."

  
James Bond, James oh-look-at-me-I'm-alive-and-well! Bond strolls out of the lift and down the path towards Q's desk. His steps are even, his shoulders rolling and predator-hunched, and his strides are just .2 seconds faster than its normal cycle, all of which means that he's feeling rather happy today. Amused, even. Q knows, because he has calculated and stored all the information in his head based on the thousands of times Bond had come down to Q branch for no reason other than to piss everyone off like the nosy git he is.

  
"Oh ye of little faith," Bond says, strolling ever closer as Q alternates between blinking really fast to clear his head of his hallucination and trying not to stare too hard. Much as he loath to admit it, he really has missed the stupid bastard. "How has your day been, Quartermaster?"

  
"Fine," Q answers automatically. "We've finally made headway with your Aston Martin and the replacement for the fender has finally been located. The Walther is beyond repair, though, what with your -" He stops, catching himself in a moment of incredulity. "Never mind that, Bond. I want to know what happened!"

  
Bond shrugs. "I didn't die."

  
"What?" They stare at each other for a long moment.

Q sets his mug down carefully on the table, taking care to set the handle exactly 45 degrees away from him for easy picking because if he doesn't, he would have been very tempted to slap Bond instead.

"I saw you," Q says quietly, fiddling with the handle a little while longer, watching the steam from the tea float and disappear between them. "I was there when they gave you the head shot." He swallows, throat clicking at the remembered shame, fear, pain. "I'm sorry."

"There was nothing you could have done," Bond reassures him, voice pitched a half octave lower, the grain of his tone soft in a way that only happens around Q and yes, Q has calculated and stored that information too. "But I'm here, and I'm alive, and that's all that matters."

There's silence again as they regarded each other, Q letting himself smile with his heart for the first time in months. 

"Welcome back, 007," Q says as they shook hands, fingers grasping tight enough that neither wanted to tear away for a long while yet. "Welcome back."

***

Q had been under the impression that the resurrection was a one time event, a miracle that would not bear repeating twice. But then he forgot that this is James Bond, the man who one shot up an entire army base because he could and then drove Q's precious DB10 into the river for kicks. Bond has an uncanny knack for getting out of increasingly dangerous situations alive, and naturally it was only a matter of time before he made another Lazarus rising.

"How the _hell_ is it possible," Q half shouts, giving in to the urge to slam his palm against the desk, making the painstakingly drawn outlines for an invisible parachute jump. "For you to escape the bloody gas chamber alive? And more importantly, why the hell did you wait three months before you tell me that you aren't dead?"

Bond makes a vague sound of dismissal. "It's a secret."

Q twitched irritably. "Tell me then."

Bond smiles magnanimously, reaching forward with casual fingers to brush away invisible lint from Q's cardigan. Q almost forgets to breath, but he tells himself it's due to the fact that he's incandescent with rage. "If I told you, I'll have to kill you."

"Oh for goodness sake -" Q huffs impatiently. "I work in MI-bloody-6 , I am the Quartermaster of one of the world's best intelligence agency, and most importantly I am your goddamn handler so tell me how you did it!"

The words are barely out of his mouth when Bond moves lightning quick, grasping Q's wrist in his grip, thumb pressing warm and snug against his racing pulse. Bond tugs, ever so gently, and suddenly they're nearer than ever, gazes and touch hovering over tea gone cold and yesterday's sketches. Suddenly, Q isn't so sure that his shortage of breath is due to the three miserable months of heartache and the subsequent reunion.

"You're upset," Bond says, whiskey on rocks voice gliding over him. At least he's as affected as Q is, pupils blown and voice a whole octave lower. "I am truly sorry for making you so. But I can't tell you. Not yet. Not now. But maybe someday."

Q cannot for his life think of how to respond to that, which is partly related to the way Bond is rubbing small circles over his wrist is very distracting. He clears his throat and tries to restart his brain. "You better keep your word on that, Bond, or I swear, I'll send you out with only a pair of pliers for your next mission."

Bond smiles, not the suave one he gives the Q branch assistants, or the tight ones he gives M after a mission report, or the playful one he throws to Q or Moneypenny sometimes. No, he smiles, soft and uncertain and unfettered, and says "I've missed you terribly."

Q stares, because how the hell is he supposed to reply to that? In the end, he twists his wrist to wrap his fingers awkwardly around Bond's and says "I've missed you terribly too."

***

Q sips his tea and stares at Bond unblinkingly until the man starts to squirm. He feels a shot of malicious glee light in his chest as he draws out the moment, enjoying the small achievement. The man did, after all, got run over by a tank and then had the audacity to appear before him undamaged and unpeturbed. 

"You what?" He asks, setting down his mug and sticking his chin out, unbelieving of what he heard. 

Bond grumbles, a soft muttering of words under his breath. Clearing his throat, he says petulantly, "I was under the impression that your hearing was perfectly fine, Quartermaster."

"Oh, yes. Yes, it is, but I'd rather hear it from your mouth again to confirm that you're not pulling my leg."

Bond's poker face is impressive, but Q is fluent is all of his resting bitch faces, and this one is equivalent to sighing very loudly and rolling his eyes. The agent's fingers are starting to tick too, just very slightly, but to Bond it's almost as if he's broadcasting his nervousness out in neon letters.

"I can't die because..." Bond peters off, mumbles something as the end, and the twitching fingers come to a standstill with great effort. He clears his throat again, the sound echoing off the underground lair of Q branch where it it too early for it to be filled with technicians. "The reason I'm always alive -"

Q must be a saint, because all he does is blink and patiently wait out Bond's uncharacteristic awkwardness, genuine worry and bafflement etched across his face. 

"I always come back from the dead because I'm gay."

There. He's said it, and all there's left to do is wait for Q to laugh in his face and instruct him never to come down here or talk to him ever again. 

Q looks down at his blueprints and Bond watch him blink rapidly, too thin arms suporting his weight against the desk. Finally, when Q spoke, it's quieter than his usual crisp voice, but edge with hesitancy. "You do know how ridiculous this sounds?"

Bond looks away, casually examining a steel tipped harpoon like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen, a light flush almost invisible beneath his tan.

Q messaged the bridge of his nose with his fingers, feeling the oncoming headache creeping in from the edges, breathing steadily through his nose. He had been having a perfectly fine weekend crying himself to sleep over Bond's death and more than fervently hoping he'd pull another miracle again, and while it was extremely pleasing to see that his wishes have not been in vain, it was still quite uncalled for.

"I'd like to have a few days on my own," he finally says, his fingers migrating to his temples, rubbing in light circles there. Bond's eyes drifts to them, but he nods his head lightly to indicate his attentiveness. "And I'd appreciate it if you try not to contact me in any way. I'd like to have time to process this on my own terms and try not to find creative ways to kill you slowly."

Bond decided not to remind Q that he just revealed he can't be killed.

"You can't die because you're gay." Q says incredulously, pushing his glasses up his nose and shaking his head. "It's not enough that you act like an 80's movie spy, you've got to be the embodiment of a reverse television trope."

Bond's lips ticks up into a smile. "I aim to surprise."

Q smiles right back. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."

***

Despite giving Q his promise that he would not call, seek or visit Q, Bond decides to try to break into Q branch the next day.

He's not entirely sure about the rash decision, other than the overwhelming thought that he would like to apologise again and again, to make the downward tilt at the corner of Q's eyes crinkle, to hold and touch to his heart's content. It occurred to him that Q might be a smidge angry if he finds out, but it was better than leaving the empty feeling in his chest to fester.

It's an itching impulse that has been growing for the past weeks, blooming in the long hours of down time he has regenerating new body parts. He missed Q. He might be in love with Q. He's absolutely, head over heels, besotted with Q. And while Bond is known for his brutality and somewhat surprising keenness of heart, he's not exactly famous for subtlety or resisting temptation, so why prove these assumptions wrong?

He had a jolly good time picking the locks and deactivating the scanners, which were surprisingly easy, until he got an electric shock.

He yelps, embarrassingly high pitched, retreating a few steps from the heavy metal door with stinging fingers and muffled curses, sucking the digits sulkily as he examines the door. A thin wiring, touch sensitive, to be triggered by a specific set of fingerprints. Typical Q.

He skulks off, taking the fire exit instead of the main lift, knowing that the systems would have alerted Q of his presence at his branch. The itching feeling scratches the insides of his skin.

He tries Q's apartment next, jimmying open the lock on the window with surprising ease in the half darkness, sliding the windowpane up silently and swinging his legs smoothly through the gap, ducking to pull his body through.

He's straightening up to take in his surroundings when the sight of Q standing, prim and stern, startles a curse out of him.

"Language, 007," Q says drily, taking a sip from his mug, eyes trained on Bond owlishly over his glasses. He does not seem surprised to see Bond there.

Bond flex his fist uselessly at his side, the black combat fatigues almost comical in contrast to the cosy atmosphere of the bedroom he's standing in. Q continues to sip his drink, letting Bond stew for a little longer.

"I just -" Bond lets his eyes wander from the military neat bed with its crisp corners to the little nightlight colouring shadows into the planes of their faces. He digs through his trousers , pulling out his carefully thought out apology. "I wanted to return you this."

It was a pen. Not exploding or poisonous or anything; just an ordinary pen, bent a little at the cap and sporting faint teeth marks at the end where the owner had chewed on it while deep in thought. Bond had pocketed it before his last mission, before the death of which he finally explained how he always survived, and while he had been surreptitious about nicking it, he had been certain that Q noticed its absence long before his departure from the branch. A silent parting gift from the handler to his agent, one that hedged their relationship beyond their formal title. _Be sure to bring it back in one piece_ , Q had meant. _Be sure to bring yourself back in one piece._

Q sweeps it off Bond's palms, fingers fairy light with just the slightest tremble. The liquid in his mug sloshes almost daringly to the lip, but Q steadies his hands with a deep breath.

"Dinner?" He asks lightly, faint smile just visible with the light at the doorway. "And maybe you could explain to me how this ability of yours work."

Bond steps forward, cupping the mug in his hands and pulling it out of Q's death grip gently. "I'd love to," he says, as they make their way out into the comfort of the living room. 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This turned out waaay angstier than I wanted, mostly because it turned into exploration of how they feel instead of the more technical aspect of explaining the weird not-dying thing.
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!


End file.
